The Question Is Out Of Our Hands Now

I was somehow both saddened and relieved to receive an e-mail flash a few minutes ago bearing the news that Terri Schiavo has died. But I think this development is far from making the issue moot. I just hope it doesn't serve to further polarize our country politically on issues which very nearly transcend human wisdom.

Perhaps it's more important right now to pray for the family and the people who are most grieved ... and to remember, too, all of the other less-publicized tragedies that play out every day, breaking hearts and offering the opportunity for those broken to seek the face of God - whether in grief, anger, thanksgiving, supplication, acquiesence, or some potent combination of them.

Slants and Slopes and Can'ts

I have a daughter who is eight years old and almost nine.

She loves to sing - especially along with Zoe Group music in our car - and loves to say grace at the table.

She says the sweetest prayers at bedtime, even though she no longer asks God's blessing for each child in her grade at school by name.

She feels that she is too big for piggyback prayers at bedtime now, since her 12-year-old, 104-pound brother is.

I miss those piggyback prayers. They were such a great reminder to me that I carry my children in prayer to the Father, and I bear responsibility for their spiritual formation.

My daughter is getting away from the stock prayer-phrases that she hears in chapel at her school, which is hosted in our church building. She's starting to really pray now, asking specifically about friends of hers that are sick or having some kind of problem - no matter how small - and she has that unshakeable childlike faith that God will hear her and take care of it.

In fact, her brother's bedtime prayers are still pretty dependent on those phrases that he and the other boys use in chapel prayers. I have faith he'll come around and put his own thoughts into his own words. Still ....

My daughter won't be leading prayers in chapel.

I understand the whys and wherefores and precedents and policies and frets and fears. I've been warned all my life about all kinds of slippery slopes, and I have even seen some prove to be treacherous.

But unless something happens soon; unless someone dares to find out whether the slope is slippery - or if it even is a slope or just a magical-house-on-the-hill optical illusion ....

My sweet daughter may not have the experience of being a channel of God's blessing to others through her prayer - except at home. Like her mother, whose heart is as wide and deep as eternity itself, she may never feel the touch of a grateful hand on her shoulder or hear the encouragement of a brother or sister who was strengthened by her prayer ... or the song she led ... or the thoughts she shared at the Lord's table ... or her heartfelt interpretation of a scripture she read ... or her story about Jesus, as only a girl or a woman can picture Him.

She'll read in her Bible about a woman in Sychar of Samaria who shared the first gospel message in scripture; about a sick woman who confessed her faith by touching Jesus' garment; about Joanna and Susanna, who were the first to support His ministry; about Mary of Magdala, who was first to tell the apostles about the risen Lord; about Lydia who was among the first to host a church in the home; about Euodia and Syntyche and Priscilla and Claudia and how many others.

But her name may never be added to a list that anyone else reads; an order of worship or a roster of leaders.

The prospect of it makes me profoundly sad.

I'm convinced that the way things are now can't be the way things were then.

And that the slant of the way things are built now is the only thing that makes the slope we're on look normal and flat and safe.

What Do You Not Understand About "Resurrection"?

Pretty much everything.

But that hasn't stopped me from writing about it. Looking back at my archives, it looks like I've become obsessed with it.

Have I?

HeartWorship: Resurrection
HeartWorship: Beautiful Feet
Resurrection and Reality
The Face of Forgiveness
Upon Three Nails

And if I have, is that a bad thing?

Don't get me wrong; I love my life. I'm not pining away for the life-to-come and neglecting this one. Because I also understand that it's dangerous to love this life too much:

"I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life." - John 12:24-25

Nothing Day

Palm Sunday is long gone. Maundy Thursday is over. It's not Good Friday. It's not Easter Sunday.

It's just Nothing Day.

To His followers on this day 1,975 years ago, Jesus was dead and buried in a signet-sealed tomb; His washed and wrapped body surrounded by a hundred pounds of fragrant spices. It was over.

Nothing has made Nothing Day more real to me than a scene from a play called Resurrection by then-student Jonathan Cloud, performed at Harding University many years ago. Since there was a dearth of male actors available, a few friends of the college were recruited from the community, and I was cast as Matthew.

In that scene, the disciples have slunk back to their rented upper room from their fearful scattering, and now mourn His torturous death the day before in relative silence, punctuated by ponderings about things He has said about returning.

Matthew puts his voice to what they're all thinking, though: "He said He'd come back ... but He never did. Now ..."

When I spoke the words in dress rehearsal, I burst into tears, suddenly feeling all of the pain and despair and frustration that the disciples must have felt. My friend Keith Sliter, portraying a burly Peter with the next line, nearly came apart - but waited until the scene was over to pull me aside: "Are you all right? You've got to warn me when you're going to do something like that."

"I couldn't," I said. He put a hand on my shoulder. "I understand."

The same thing happened at every performance. I couldn't help it. It wasn't method acting. It was just something that went too deep for words.

Nothing Day.

Prayer Request for Rusty Peterman

Milton Stanley posts that Rusty Peterman, minister and fellow blogger, suffered a stroke recently. Please pray for his speedy and complete recovery!

The First Good Friday

You've read the books. You've seen the movies.

So have I. But can any of us really force ourselves to experience what it must have been like on that first Good Friday?

The millions of words written to describe it can't begin to. More gruesome than any horror story; more heart-breaking than any romance; more soul-wrenching than any account of innocents suffering and dying.

Because it's not just one Man. It's all of us. He dies there for all of us.

And we're not innocent; not by a long shot.

One word from His lips could have stopped it and obliterated us all forever.

But that word was not, is not, cannot be in His nature.

That's a very good thing, because He could still say it.

That makes today a very Good Friday.

Giving Up Sacrifice for Lent?

I've never "given up" anything for Lent before. It wasn't part of my religious tradition in the churches of Christ I've attended. Over the years, I've heard - and even made - jokes about giving up watermelons for Lent (I don't like them and they're not in season); the tragedy of folks who gave up chocolate just before Girl Scout cookie delivery time and such.

I don't know why. I've fasted with prayer several times before, especially when Angi and I were trying to adopt and were blessed with our two beautiful children.

But this year I felt challenged by some fellow bloggers and article-writers who have made a Lenten fast part of their heritage, Catholic or otherwise, and have been blessed by it.

This year I stopped drinking soft drinks at the beginning of the Lenten season. That's forty days and six Sundays without the bubbly stuff. It may seem silly or pointless or even easy for some, but it started out to be really difficult for me.

I love Mountain Dew. I work on a campus that has an arrangement with Pepsi-Cola, and there are Mountain Dew vending machines everywhere.

I promised myself early on (myself; not God - I wasn't sure I could go through with it!) that I'd drink only coffee, tea, water, milk or juice until Easter. Each time I felt that insatiable craving for Mountain Dew, I would pause to be thankful - if for nothing else, for the luxury of living surrounded by a veritable sea of soft drinks!

As the fast progressed, I found plenty of other things to be thankful for. And I found the craving was diminishing. After a while, I occasionally even forgot to take that moment out for thanksgiving. Oops!

I knew it wouldn't be a proper fast, though, if I didn't celebrate it in the spirit of Isaiah 58:1-7. So I also resolved to save the coins I would have plugged into those vending machines, and instead plug them into a fundraising can for Riley's Warriors. It may not be quite the same as God's admonition through Isaiah to share food with the hungry, but it does benefit families with special-needs children, giving them a free, much-needed "day off" from that intensive care through qualified specialists and caregivers. Many parents of such children spend all they have - money, time, energy, love, enthusiasm - providing that care 24/7, and they deserve a break.

My children noticed my Lenten fast right away. They know I don't like iced tea very much, yet I was drinking it a lot. So when they asked, I told them what it was all about.

I told them that there isn't any way I can sacrifice enough to repay the debt Jesus paid on a Friday before Easter ... but this is a way that helps others a little, and helps me remember - a lot, and often.

I've been faithful to the fast. I don't know if I could have been as faithful if I had tried to fast like my blogging buddy Travis Stanley, who gave up blogging. And he has been faithful, to the point that I haven't even seen him comment on others' blogs for the whole season.

That just might have been too much of a sacrifice to ask of myself.

Maybe next year.

Because I've been very blessed by this fast. I don't see myself giving up sacrifice for Lent any more.

And I'm thankful, more than anything else, that Jesus didn't.

What A Mother Wants Her Son To Drink

At a party - a wedding party, no less - the traditional first century beverage was the blood of the grape, distilled and refined and served with generosity.

Jesus, his mother Mary and friends were in attendance at one in Cana of Galilee (way up on the wrong side of Samaria and a good walk from home in Nazareth) when the wine ran out.

Respectfully - as was the custom of the time, no doubt - she actually made no request. She simply went to Him and shared with Him the bad news: "They have no more wine."

Did He divine her thoughts? Did He have to, or did He just know what she wanted as a son knows a mother's heart? He answered her fondly: "Dear woman, why do you involve me? My time has not yet come."

She had planted the seed. Whether He stood there or moved on, we aren't told. But she turned to the servants and told them: "Do whatever he tells you."

Was Mary just concerned about friends hosting a wedding party who were suddenly in an embarrassing situation? Did she just have confidence in His ability to stealthily pass the hat? Were the guests already soused and rowdy, and apt to riot if the news became known? Had she seen Him do something supernatural and super-quickly to stem an emergency before? Was she pressing Him to make himself known? To reveal His glory so His friends would believe in Him? That seemed to be His interpretation.

It certainly was the one which proved true. As obedient to His mother as He was to His Father, He looked around for an opportunity and spotted six big 20- or 30-gallon stone jars nearby, usually filled with clean water for dipping out to wash one's hands during the long wedding party. This late in the party - the guests doubtless overstaying their welcome when the wine ran out - the jars were no longer filled. He told the servants, "Fill the jars with water."

So they filled each one to the brim. Then He told them to draw some out and take it to the caterer.

Does it matter to you or anyone else whether the miracle was in the pouring or the dipping or the tasting? Did it matter to the servants, or to Jesus, or to Mary? What was the caterer's opinion?

The caterer tasted what was brought to him, and was probably pretty well put out. He didn't know where it came from, and he didn't deign to ask the servants. So he pulled the bridegroom aside and told him that most people bring out the good stuff first and then the cheap stuff later, after everyone has already had too much to drink. "But you've saved the best stuff till now!" he exclaimed.

The best stuff.

Kegs of it. Maybe 120 - 180 gallons. Enough to keep the party going a long, long time.

Don't get me wrong. This is no diatribe in defense of overdoing it with alcohol. It's not a demand to serve wine rather than grape juice in the cup you drink from during Communion. It's just an interesting situation to me.

The Son of God chose to perform His first miracle at a wedding party in Cana of Galilee, and He chose to exchange water for wine. Not cheap wine. But the good stuff. The best stuff.

His mother wouldn't have had it any other way.

It wouldn't be the last miracle He performed while in that body. In fact, for His last one He chose to exchange death for life. Not cheap, watered-down, sour, vinegar-y 'take-away-a-little-pain- while-You're-dying-on-a-cross- as-Your-mother-watches-You-bleed' life. But the good stuff; the eternal stuff; the stuff that lasts and is worth having forever. The best life.

His Father wouldn't have approved of anything less.

- from the account in John 2:1-11

(Nagged by a comment made by Fred Peatross on his blog months ago that Christian bloggers don't seem to talk about Jesus very much, I've decided to start a new blog to pursue the quest started here. You can find it at this link: What Would Jesus Do Next?)

HeartWorship: Resurrection

A promise once made to the mortal and lost
A present paid for at extravagant cost
A future for those who have already died
A new life for those who feel dead inside
 
A lie to all those who will not believe truth
A fairy tale to those who've outgrown their youth
A threat to all those who invest in today
A detour to those who must make their own way
 
A wholeness of body that can't be destroyed
A perfectness filling an imperfect void
A reality that's mostly unrealized
A treasure reserved for those dearly prized
 
A nail-mark still seen in His feet and His hands
A life filled with gratitude that it demands
A purpose, a mission for those He would send
A worship beginning ... that never can end
 

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade - kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God's power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time." - I Peter 1:3-5

True Believers

I've just returned from three days at Space Camp with my 12-year-old son Matthew and his sixth-grade class.

As long as I can remember knowing about the Marshall Space Flight Center I've wanted to go; to see the Rocket Park and the museum. I've made pilgrimmages to Houston and Canaveral, but this was my maiden voyage to Redstone-land.

Yet, it's not the extraordinary interactive exhibits, the glimpses of Space Academy simulations or the huge actual rockets (including a space shuttle, Saturns V and I-B, Titan, Atlas and several Redstones) that have left the most lasting impression. It isn't designing and making a rocket from a paper tube or a hot-air balloon from tissue paper and paste. It isn't the two IMAX movies or the technology or even the chutzpah of the pioneers of space.

It's the Space Camp counselors.

And their diversity. Not just in race, gender, size, shape, innovation, flexibility, knowledge of their material and personality. What impresses me most is the diversity in the two most important areas: their love for the kids, and their passion for telling the story of the space program.

Robert took us boys and parent-chaperones to our quarters in the Habitat. He's a by-the-book guy: fall-in, count off, zip it when ordered. He was new, and referred frequently to his prompt cards. His job was to communicate a certain amount of material to his charges, and they were not there to prevent him from doing his job.

Steve, on the other had, adored the kids. His fall-in call was "Kool-Aid!" and their loud response was "Oh, YEAH!" He knew his museum by heart and shared it the same way.

The 77 kids from both campuses of my son's school - and all the parent-chaperones - were parsed into three groups. Our group (the self-named "Space Monkeys") was assigned to Tammy the first day, to Ashley most of the second day, and to Tammy again in the evening. Soft-spoken Ashley's fall-in call (they each had their own) was "Can you hear me now?" and our response was "Loud and CLEAR!" Though she was new and still referred to her cards often, she telegraphed her enthusiasm for the subject. She reversed the definitions of "rendezvous" and "docking," but she had a great example that the kids could act out.

Tammy didn't have a fall-in call. She didn't need one. The kids just seemed to know from her non-verbals what she wanted and needed them to do, and they fell in because she was willing to completely re-do their schedule on the spot so they could spend cold-and-wet weather time indoors and visit Rocket Park when it was warm and sunny.

I heard other counselors as we wandered the museum during the "Museum Search" time. I encountered one young lady in particular who knew more about rocketry and more about the space program than anyone at the Smithsonian or NASA. Her delivery was absolutely arresting. She held the children in her group spellbound, telling all the little inside stories: Alan Shepherd's bladder dilemma atop the Mercury/Redstone stack ... Gus Grissom's difficulties with blown hatches and corned-beef sandwiches ... John Young's attempt at the highest jump ever on the moon in a spacesuit that weighed only 30 pounds there, but still had 180 pounds of inertia. She could and would answer each question. I would tell you her name, but my eyes never left hers to see her name tag.

You could tell the true believers from the self-deceivers in a matter of moments.

You could almost predict which ones would wash out in weeks, and which ones would still be docents well into retirement age, as many of the museum docents were.

And, inevitably, I had to ask myself: How do I come across when I'm sharing the Story?

The Story I'm compelled to tell is not a story of space and time, but of unbounded love and eternity. Do I tell it with passion? Do I put it into action? Do I check my crib sheets too often? Do I cherish each listener?

Or am I just doing a job and trying to keep the rowdy in line?

HeartWorship: Reconciliation

Why is it so difficult to reconcile?

Broken promises, people, homes, nations. We've broken faith.

We can't un-do the damage done. We grasp our grudges. We harbor hate. We can't forget, even when we can forgive.

God can. He, too, has offered His trust ... and been betrayed. Still He yearns for reconciliation.

Like a Father to a prodigal child. Like a hen to her baby chicks. Like a Man on a cross to the ones who put Him there.

It should bring us to our knees in prayer and praise. But ...

Do we dare say our thanks and sing our worship to Him while still at odds with others His Son died for?

"Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to your brother; then come and offer your gift." - Matthew 5:23-24

Peace

I'm past the stage of shock now, two weeks after catching up with my best friend from junior high school.

"Catching up" isn't the right phrase, though. It was as if I had him back, for a few moments. Then I lost him again.

Let me explain. We were inseparable from the moment we met. He attended a church that would have - at least in our parents' eyes - made us spiritual cousins, but we knew we were brothers. We played chess. We launched rockets together. We talked Trek. His birthday was exactly one year behind mine, to the day.

When he went to college, he showed me this incredible device called a computer to which only he and a few others had lock, key and password access. It was fantastic. He showed me a game that printed on a plotter the path of a landing lunar module as you periodically typed in thrust commands and the screen displayed remaining fuel and distance and speed. He wanted to become a medical doctor, but I could tell he had a great affinity for this new device. I encouraged him to think about what it could mean if someone created, with the device, a huge repository of medical information from which doctors could draw.

We didn't stay in touch, other than Christmas cards and the occasional phone call over the many years. The Christmas cards stopped a couple of years ago. Now I know why.

I Googled his name one day out of a sudden stroke of curiosity. The results happened to show up more or less chronologically.

He had become a medical doctor. He had written scholarly papers about creating medical databases and how doctors could use PDAs in the rounds, years before these became common practices. He had labored at the forefront of protecting those databases from corruption in a Y2K crisis.

Then, just five years ago, he volunteered as a street medic at some anti-war protests, expecting to treat the sort of injuries that one treats at marathons and street fairs and parades. Something went wrong. There was some violence. There were serious injuries. My friend began writing articles about methods used to subdue the protests. He began to wonder why unarmed people would put themselves into physical danger to protest war as he followed more rallies in other cities.

He began to research their claims, and to write extremely well-written, documented, and defended articles about war, peace, protest, and policy. He left the profession of medicine to pursue the profession of peace. He maintained at least a couple of Web sites. He pulled no punches. He had no fear of authority. Always articulate, he coined some quotes which found their way around the Web and became more or less famous. Other sites quoted him as an authority. I was sad to see that a couple called him a humanist. Eventually, he came to host a locally-produced - but widely syndicated - television show about topics of war, peace, protest and policy.

Then, two years ago, the television show's Web site announced his departure. His Web sites went offline. His e-mail addresses apparently went dead; my e-mails to him were returned undelivered. There were no online records of him past 2003.

Now you have guessed why I haven't shared his name, for I do not know his fate. Whatever it is; wherever it is, he will always be my friend. True to his beliefs, true to himself, true to all others. Because when he cannot be true, he will be silent. He is Kipling's (and Solomon's) "Thousandth Man." I would no more want to endanger him nor his beliefs by pursuing his friendship than he would mine.

I know what he believes. And I know why.

We are brothers.

"They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. 'Peace, peace,' they say, when there is no peace." - Jeremiah 6:14; Jeremiah 8:11

HeartWorship: Beautiful Feet

The feet anointed for burial by a sinful woman had walked many miles, and into many places of worship.

The feet nailed to a cross had walked through Samaria to bring good news of worship in spirit and truth to another sinful woman whose concept of worship was tied to a mountain.

The nail-scarred feet His followers clung to as they worshipped Him had returned so He could remind them of His example of mission and worship. He came back to commission them to do as he had done, and - before those feet were lifted from among them one last time - to promise He would still be walking with them in Spirit.

For the beautiful feet of His followers bear a message of salvation and praise that is one and the same, just as prophesied many hundreds of years ago:

How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, "Your God reigns!" - Isaiah 52:7

A Part Of History?

Like my blogging buddy James Wiser, I'd be wiser to just stop writing this blog entry right now.

I've really got nothing against Promise Keepers. Many of my friends have found the rallies to be moving, profound, powerful experiences. I've never been. I've never been drawn to. Maybe it's the advertising.

This morning I passed a billboard on the way to work for a PK rally in my home state. The headline was:

"Want to Be a Part of History?"

Hmm. I think I already am, as long as I have a blog. As long as I have old newspaper columns online from my career at the Abilene Reporter-News, or bylines from articles at other newspapers I've worked at eating themselves up on acidic newsprint in library archives. As long - as Dr. McCoy of Star Trek might say - as people remember me.

Someday I'll die, and my obituary will be part of history, too.

It has to be hard to market something like a Promise Keepers rally. You wouldn't get far with a headline like "Discover Your Feminine Side - Your Wife!" or "Abandon Your Family for a Weekend - They'll Love You For It!" or "Hug and Blubber With Your Buds in a Big Stadium!" or "Get Your PK T-Shirt Here!"

But can't they do better than "Want to Be a Part of History?"

How about, "Be A Man - Like The Son of Man"?

Or "Learn to Serve God Through Your Family"?

Or "New Marriage Paradigm: Christ Gives Himself Up For His Bride"?

Or "What Would Jesus' Dad Do?"

Limmerictus II: Hope

When all of man's rules are de-ratified
When society's fully ex-stratified
Greed, un-gratified
Beauty, beatified
Will I wonder "Where would I be at if I'd ...?"

The Postulant's Screed

Several of my favorite blog reads have been especially concerned of late about how to do church ... Brian Burkett, Wade Hodges, and bartender "thewalrus" at thesecondchance (don't belly up to this bar if you're easily offended, though; the virtual drinks are served full strength and the language can be as salty as a margarita glass).

Plus a couple of others - one of them is david u and I've misplaced the other - have dared to wonder if items like the Apostle's Creed and the Nicene Creed are as out-of-date as we might think.

It makes me wonder if I should put words to my own version: The Postulant's Screed, if you will ... where "postulant" is defined as "someone making a request, especially to enter a religious order" and "screed" is defined as "a long and boring piece of writing" and/or "a strip of something set as an architectural guide to making a straight line (orthodox)."

Maybe it would go something like this:

• I'm not sure I believe in the church anymore; after all, Jesus only mentioned it once or twice. But I do believe in the kingdom because He talked about it a lot, and so did the writers of the New Testament.


• The problem is, I don't know how much the church and the kingdom overlap and I don't have a good feel for any solid preference - let alone command - about size, structure, or procedure expressed in scripture. So do those things matter?


• I get the feeling that Jesus and his followers were much more concerned about persuading others to pursue a relationship with God through His Son ... and right after that, taking care of each other's needs as much as possible.


• I can't help but feel that worship began, at least, on a daily basis and was virtually indistinguishable from service. I mean right at first; right after Pentecost.


• And something niggling in the back of my mind (it might be a verse of scripture, or maybe a song) convinces me that if I would just seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, that all the other things I worry about would be given to me as well.


• I mean, I know what I'd like to have in worship and in church if it was up to me ... and I don't see a lot of "thou shalts" and "thou shalt nots" connected to it (except that it comes from my heart, of course) ... so maybe isn't it more important for me to serve the needs of others in those contexts? Won't God see to it that my needs are met, and maybe even choose to meet them through my sisters and brothers in Christ?


• Am I just crazy? Too simplistic? Need more scripture citations? (Well, the Apostles and the Council of Nicea didn't cite book, chapter or verse!)

Okay, sorry that was long and boring.

But it just wouldn't be a screed otherwise.

HeartWorship: How Do You Plead?

It's the requisite first hearing. The charges against you are read aloud. They are lengthy. They are familiar.

Because you are guilty on every count. If convicted, the penalty is death.

You try to look up at the Judge, but you can't. Finally, after the last of the charges and specifications is read, you hear His voice intone your name and ask, "How do you plead?"

Words fail you. Your Defender steps forward. "Your Honor," He says - and His voice sounds peculiarly like the Judge's voice - "I am authorized to enter a plea of guilty for the defendant, and to take full responsibility for the specified crimes. We have a contract to that effect."

"Unfair!" screams your accuser. "Unjust! Nepotism!" - but he is silenced.

"So noted," the Judge replies, and turns to you. "The case against you is dismissed. Your Defender is to be remanded to custody to serve the full measure of your sentence: death by hanging."

You turn to see to see your Defender's face as the gavel sounds its finality.

What language can you borrow? Would a thousand tongues be enough? Would you daily prove His love?

Would you give Him back the life you owe?

Great Deals on Guilt!

I have a yeoman's knowledge of how things work on the Internet, so I was especially amused a moment ago while doing a Google search - just out of curiosity - for a key word in the theme of a HeartWorship item I'm trying to write for my church bulletin ... and seeing an automatically-generated ad in the right column reading:

Guilt
Huge selection, great deals on
Guilt.
eBay.com

Man, trust eBay to get you the best prices on what you want most - or least, apparently!

If Google's advertising autocompiler only knew the Price that had to be paid ....

Hard-To-Sing Hymns

Are there songs and hymns led at your church that are hard for you to sing? Not because of a strange key or peculiar musical intervals, but because of the lyrics?

I have trouble singing "All to Jesus I Surrender." I want to mean what I say when I sing it. I'm not sure I can and still be honest with God, with myself, and with the people singing around me.

Same thing with the line "Take my silver and my gold; Not a mite would I withhold." Well, a mite ... maybe, since it's not a denomination of our current coinage. (Still, it would be a valuable collector piece!) How about just "take my silver" and let me keep the gold?

And there's the final verse "None of self, and all of Thee." Can't quite sing it with all my heart. Wish I could.

Sometimes I have to stifle a verse with a cough. Or just drop out and clear my throat. Or, more honestly, I just don't sing.

Am I being more harsh in judging myself than God would be? Does He see me the same way I saw my little ones when they used to proudly bring and give me some precious thing they had found ... something that was already mine?

Are there songs that are hard for you to sing?

Why We Leave Church Starving

It's no wonder we leave church and can't wait to get in line at the cafeteria or get seated at the restaurant or gather around the dinner table at home.

We're sublimating for what we really lack. We're empty.

We've been emptied out by worship.

It isn't supposed to fill us up. It's supposed to empty us out.

We brought our handful of grain, our libation poured out, our dove or lamb or bullock and offered them on the altar. We left without them.

Oh, maybe we left with a crumb of bread and a taste of grape in us. Just enough to tingle the senses and ignite the salivary glands.

But we left our songs, our prayers, our smiles and hugs and tears and needs. We left our hopes and our pains. We gave them to God.

It's no mystery that it never seems like it's enough. It isn't. It can't be. What we bring can never measure up to what we've been given. Our sacrifice can never match His.

No matter how good the singing, the preaching, the devotion and fellowship can be, it will never been sufficient; never equal to what our Lord deserves. Deep down, we know that. A thousand tongues would only be a tiny fraction of what there should be.

What there will be. In heaven. That's the feast we anticipate. That's what we're hungry for: to join the voices of millions upon countless millions.

For now, a few dozen will have to do. That, and the comfort of knowing that, just maybe, the same Spirit inspired worship leaders to lead the same song at the same time in the same key at the same tempo in a dozen different churches that morning, and that God heard them all at once and it was closer to what it should be.

Or that He heard the cacophony of all the different songs and keys and tempos and it was music to His ears, like the giggling of toddlers at play is to us.

So we long to see with His eyes and hear with His ears.

And we leave church starved.

Because we're supposed to.